


High on You (and the Devil's Lettuce)

by Sidney_Quinn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale gets high, Crack, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley talks him through it, Cuddling & Snuggling, Entirely by accident, First Kiss, Food Porn, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Marijuana, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Sushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24015709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidney_Quinn/pseuds/Sidney_Quinn
Summary: “Aziraphale,” Crowley began, squinting and pulling back to observe at a better angle. “Are youhigh?”The angel hummed pleasantly, with that silly little smile that suggested he was thinking about something sweet and overly indulgent like crepes. Realizing that Crowley was expecting an answer, he responded, “Oh, hello.”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 232
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads





	High on You (and the Devil's Lettuce)

**"** Crowley, exactly how long are you planning to take in there?”

Aziraphale tapped his foot, arms crossed, as he suspiciously eyed the bathroom door. They had made reservations for a new sushi restaurant in town that had very good reviews, and of course, being the sushi aficionado that he was, Aziraphale was able to perform a minor miracle to get them a seat at the chef’s table opening week.

“We’re going to be late.” He glanced at his pocket watch and pursed his lips.

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, angel,” came a muffled voice from the other side of the door. What on earth was he doing in there that was taking so long? And never mind the fact that they were running behind schedule, Aziraphale was getting hungry. Certainly, his corporation didn’t need food, technically speaking, but after so many years of indulging in the pleasures of earth’s fine cuisine, he had rather come to expect it.

“Two minutes, Crowley! Or I’m leaving without you.”

His remarks were met with mumbling, a running faucet, and what sounded like a can of hairspray. If Crowley was going to be much longer, Aziraphale needed to find something to tide him over. Surely the demon had something edible in this sorry excuse for a flat. He made his way to the kitchen, which looked like something right off a display floor, purely for looks and not at all functional.

Pre-apocalypse, and even during the Arrangement, Aziraphale had rarely entered Crowley’s living space. But in the weeks after the whole botched end of the world debacle, the two of them found themselves caring less about boundaries and more about doing whatever in heaven’s (or hell’s) name they wanted. After all, they had saved the world together. And they had, quite literally, saved each other too. Of course, this meant weekly lunches at the Ritz, more frequent walks through St. James’ Park, and cocktails at each others’ flats whenever it suited them. Aziraphale couldn’t be happier, and that was the extent of it. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Now, let’s see, there’s got to be something in here,” Aziraphale muttered to himself as he rifled through the cabinets. Scotch, very expensive coffee, a tin filled with safety pins and old gum wrappers. Really, he didn’t want to know. Some cabinets were simply empty, others filled with vintage wine that he had recently learned Crowley only drank when Aziraphale stopped by. Wine glasses in another, and-- “Oh!” the angel exclaimed. “Here we are.”

From a cabinet just barely within reach, Aziraphale pulled out a small packet of biscuits in sleek, modern packaging. Chocolate chip, by the look of them. He didn’t recognize the brand, but Crowley was up on all of the recent trends, wasn’t he? Aziraphale hoped he wouldn’t mind if he had just a nibble. After all, he was famished and Crowley was taking entirely too long getting ready. Surely the demon wouldn’t miss them. It wasn’t as if he ate much, anyway.

Aziraphale opened the package and experimentally popped one into his mouth. A bit dry, surely, and hm...no, definitely stale and dare he say, pungent? He chewed and swallowed regardless, as he maintained that wasting food was bad form. But he made a mental note to speak with Crowley later about his apparent habit of letting food in his cabinets expire. The angel searched for a glass of water to rid his tastebuds of the lingering tang.

Not a moment after he had placed the biscuits back in the cabinet, the bathroom door swung open with a dramatic bang, and out sauntered Crowley in a cloud of steam and who knows what else. “Ready, angel?”

“I’m pretty sure I should be the one asking you that.” Aziraphale shot Crowley a look of fond judgement. He straightened his waistcoat, and with a smile, ushered him out the door. “After you.”

* * *

_“Taisho, sore wa, arigatou gozaimasu.”_ Aziraphale bowed his head and smiled as the chef placed two plates of exquisitely prepared daitoro sushi in front of Crowley and himself.

Crowley sneered from his seat next to Aziraphale at the hightop bar. “That is so embarrassing.”

“I’ve been told my Japanese is quite good, thank you very much.” Aziraphale delicately placed his napkin on his lap and rubbed his hands together, savoring the sight before him.

“I’m not saying it’s not, but...never mind.” The demon poked at the sushi in front of him as if he were suspicious that it wasn’t quite dead.

“Food is the universal language, Crowley.”

He shoved the entire piece into his mouth. “Is that so? Could have sworn it was--”

The angel’s sharp inhale cut him off, and the demon was so startled it caused his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose.

“What!” he hissed.

Aziraphale was quite certain that in all of his long existence, he had never had sushi this delectable. It was nothing short of an otherworldly experience, and goodness knows, he had had plenty of those. He let his eyes close, savoring the way the fish melted on his tongue. He could distinctly make out the texture of each individual grain of rice, and revelled in the way the heat of the wasabi so delectably married the flavors together. He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been enjoying this particular morsel, but when he opened his eyes, Crowley was turned toward him, mouth still full, eyebrows visible above his glasses.

“That good?” Crowley swallowed thickly and reached for the sake.

“It’s _divine_. Don’t you think so?”

“I mean...er, yeah, it’s good.”

Aziraphale wished that Crowley wouldn’t wear those confounded glasses all the time. It made it very difficult to determine what he was thinking, even having known him for the better part of six millenia. And wasn’t that a long time? Was it possible for the human mind to fathom how long six millenia was?

“We’ve known each other for such a long time, Crowley.” The demon jerked in his chair, elbow threatening to take out the bottle of soy sauce that sat between them. Wait, had he said that out loud?

“Uh, mm, yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

Luckily, the moment was interrupted by the next course. Two different cuts of yellowtail with yuzu reduction. Aziraphale felt, actually _felt_ his mouth flood with anticipation.

“ _Hontou ni, subarashiku--_ ”

The angel was cut short by a kick to the shin.

“This is delectable,” he stressed as he shot Crowley a withering look. The chef smiled in response as Aziraphale lifted the piece of sushi slowly, and ever so carefully, to his mouth.

* * *

Crowley poured himself another cup of sake and took a hearty swig, eyes fixed on his dining companion through the side of his glasses. Aziraphale was acting...odd. Not that it was out of the ordinary for the angel to act odd. He did tend to enjoy food an awful lot, and the sushi was quite good, even by Crowley’s standards, whose taste buds may as well have been singed off on his tumble down to Hell.

Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin when a warm hand settled on his shoulder. “My dear, you’re not eating, are you alright?”

That was...new. Physical contact. Sent a shock right through him, the angel’s sure grip on his shoulder, and Crowley found his mind wandering and imagining what other things Aziraphale’s hands could do.

“Fine! Just fine.” He grabbed for the yellowtail and shoved it into his mouth whole, washing it down with his entire cup of sake.

“You’re meant to enjoy it, Crowley, for heaven’s sake.” And thank someone, the next course arrived and Aziraphale was too occupied with the presentation of the tuna handroll to keep his hand on the demon’s shoulder. The angel seemed completely unfazed by the fact that he had just breached the unspoken physical boundary that the two of them had kept in place as long as time itself.

After the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, things had gone back to being more or less the same, save the fact that neither of them reported to their respective authorities. No more Heaven or Hell breathing down their necks; they were free to do what they pleased. And yes, Crowley wanted more. He had always wanted more. After all, that was his natural tendency as a demon, wasn’t it? But this--the two of them trying new restaurants, getting smashed over cocktails in the bookshop, strolling through the park on chilly autumn days--this was enough.

At least, he thought it was, until the angel next to him uttered an unseemly moan, eyes rolling back in his head as the handroll passed his lips.

“Oh, _Crowley_ , have you tried this?”

“Mm, ngk--nah, you go ahead,” he choked, and pushed his plate toward Aziraphale, who managed to look both astonished and ravenous at the same time.

“My dear boy, are you sure?” And before Crowley could utter another string of incomprehensible sounds he said, “Well, if you insist.”

Crowley couldn’t look away as the angel opened his mouth, soft lips sliding against the delicate layer of nori before biting down gently, the crisp outer layer crunching as he did so. Crowley found himself longing to reach out and pluck a stray grain of rice from Aziraphale’s lower lip. But he wouldn’t have had the chance, as the angel’s pink tongue had already darted out to lick it away. Aziraphale sighed in contentment, shifting happily against his chair.

Crowley bounced his leg restlessly on the rung of his bar stool. For some reason, Aziraphale’s guard was down. He wouldn’t be caught dead being this...vocal in public, let alone around Crowley. Surely he hadn’t had that much to drink already. Crowley lifted the bottle of sake and shook it experimentally. If Aziraphale had too much to drink, then Crowley most definitely had not had enough. He took a swig straight from the bottle, but Aziraphale was apparently too occupied in his state of bliss to notice. Crowley motioned to the waiter for another round.

* * *

There was a pause in the courses, and Aziraphale belatedly realized that another bottle of cold sake had appeared in front of them. He wondered when that had happened.

His corporation buzzed with a warm feeling, similar to the buzz of alcohol but much more comforting, as if someone had wrapped him up in a warm blanket and handed him a cup of cocoa after a trying day. He looked over at his companion, expression entirely unreadable thanks to his signature dark glasses, but he looked...tense. Brooding. Which was, he told himself, par for the course when it came to Crowley. But there was something different about the demon tonight. Very much to Aziraphale’s surprise, he found himself wondering what it might be like to reach out and touch those pouting lips, what it may feel like to trace his sharp jawline. The feeling of warmth grew, wrapping him up in a cocoon that he very much wished Crowley was a part of, too. Was the sushi having the same effect on him, he wondered? Likely not, if his sour expression was any indication.

A distracting thought bubbled to the surface and Aziraphale felt urgently compelled to share.

“Do you think they knew?”

“Knew what?” Crowley slinked in his chair as if his limbs were unhappy to be kept in one place for too long.

“Where they would end up.”

“Who?”

Aziraphale suddenly went quiet. “Do you think they have little...fish funerals? Put out missing fish notices?”

“Angel _what_ \--” Crowley twisted toward him in a way that could only be described as serpentine, and adjusted his glasses for effect. “Are you talking about the morality of you enjoying sushi?”

“Well, don’t you ever wonder?”

“No!” At this, the demon tore his glasses from his face, lowering his head and leaning in close to hide his eyes from the restaurant’s patrons. “Angel, what has gotten into you? I know you tend to be philosophical, but you’re beginning to sound like--”

Crowley was brought to an abrupt halt as Aziraphale’s hand came to rest on his face, thumb stroking in gentle circles along his cheekbone. And _oh_ , how surprising, his skin was much softer than Aziraphale imagined any demon’s would be. He watched with endearment as, seemingly in slow motion, Crowley’s lip twitched and his eyes shifted from side to side, scanning Aziraphale’s face but refusing to make eye contact. So rare a sight, those lovely, otherworldly things. Aziraphale wished Crowley wouldn’t hide them so often. And though he would normally have kept a tighter lid on his feelings about the matter, he couldn’t help but feel compelled to say so.

“My dear, has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?”

* * *

The truth was, no, they hadn’t, of _course_ they hadn’t, but Crowley wasn’t about to admit that to Aziraphale in the middle of a sushi restaurant in central London. Instead, Crowley’s brain decided to short circuit at the electric feeling of Aziraphale’s skin--his soft, warm, _angelic_ skin--on his. His throat made a series of choking noises and he jerked away from the touch, blaming the tingling feeling on their ethereal incompatibility, because it was easier to blame it on that than whatever other feelings were bubbling up under the surface.

Crowley shoved his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, too flustered to notice that they were askew. When Aziraphale reached up to fix them on his behalf, he flinched away as if the angel had just performed the sign of the cross with holy water.

“Good lord, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed, turning back to the sea bream that had just been set in front of him. “I’m not sure what has you so uptight.”

“Upti--what has me--!” Crowley gestured between them wildly before settling on balling his hands on his knees. “Just...eat your dinner, angel.”

* * *

Things only got more bizarre on the ride back to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Crowley glanced over at the passenger seat more than once to see its occupant gazing out the window, eyes agog like a child in a toy store the week before Christmas. He would let out little gasps once in a while, followed by a pleased humming sound he typically reserved for perusing particularly rare book collections.

“You okay, angel?” Crowley gave him a sidelong glance, attempting to keep up the semblance of looking at the road, for Aziraphale’s sake. Oddly enough, the angel seemed occupied with things other than the speed at which they were driving.

“Oh I’m _splendid_ , Crowley. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

“Sushi was that good, eh?”

“Yes, didn’t you think so?” Before he had the chance to answer, Aziraphale continued. “Just look at the lights, my dear.”

Crowley leaned over and squinted out of the passenger window at the cityscape of London that they had seen hundreds and thousands of times. “What lights?”

“The lights of the city! Aren’t they fantastic? What humanity has accomplished in just the past couple of centuries never ceases to amaze me.”

Crowley chalked all of this existential talk to the whole “end of the world” thing. Normally this kind of flowery feel-good talk would make him gag. But there was a childlike awe about Aziraphale’s expression that softened him around the edges. Not that he would ever admit it out loud.

His thoughts were interrupted when, as he accelerated, the angel grabbed onto the dash for dear life. Not that this was anything new, mind you. But rather than being terrified as he normally was, Aziraphale was _grinning_.

“Whooooooooo!” he crowed in a very un-angelic manner, leaning back against the seat like the trigger had just been pulled on a high velocity roller coaster. Never mind that Crowley was only going about 15 mph over the speed limit in contrast to his usual 30.

The demon pulled off his glasses, as if it would help him see better, and glared. “What?”

“Isn’t this fun, Crowley?” Aziraphale looked over and positively beamed. “I’ve always hated driving, I mean, not with you of course, not because of you but, well you do go rather fast and I…”

The angel continued to ramble as Crowley’s eyes shifted suspiciously up and down his body. Something was up. Something was definitely up. He chalked it up to residual nerves from the almost apocalypse as they pulled up to the Soho bookshop. “Here we are, angel.”

“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale graced him with his signature little smile in the shape of a vee. Except this time, he placed a warm hand on Crowley’s knee. The demon nearly jumped out of his skin, leg hitting the underside of the steering wheel. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. “You’ll come in, won’t you? I have a nice bottle of Piedmont barbera from 1996 that is just begging to be opened.” His hand tightened on Crowley’s knee and the demon couldn’t help but shift a bit in his seat.

Certainly, it was tradition for Crowley to follow Aziraphale into his bookshop for a nightcap after a dinner out, but the angel was acting...strange. And had been for most of the evening. Crowley shot him a confused look in the dim cabin of the Bentley, but threw it in park anyway and hopped out before he could think twice about the implications of Aziraphale’s actions.

It took Aziraphale several moments too long to open the door, and he seemed to be struggling with finding the correct key. Had he forgotten that he could just miracle it open? Just as Crowley was about to offer assistance, he let out a little, “Aha!” and waltzed into the dark shop.

However, not a moment after Crowley closed the door behind him, he felt a warm weight press him back against it. The air left his lungs and he forgot to breathe, regardless of the fact that he didn’t actually need to. “A-Aziraphale?!” It was still dark in the shop, and damn it, Crowley could barely see with his sunglasses on. But that thought quickly fled from the forefront of his mind as he realized that the warm weight against him was angel shaped and very, very insistent.

Aziraphale pressed him up against the door, his whole weight upon him, breath hot and shallow by his ear. It took all of Crowley’s strength to push against his chest and pretend he hadn’t wanted this for literal ages because honestly what had come over him? “Aziraphale, what in g--what are you doing?”

“Mm, well you just looked so delicious and I simply couldn’t help myself.” He rolled his hips and Crowley nearly choked. “And it is awfully chilly outside and I worry about you, you know, being a reptile and all, so susceptible to the cold, I figured I’d...warm you up.”

Well he couldn’t deny the angel had succeeded there. 

Crowley slammed his palm against the wall with a bit more force than necessary, searching desperately for the light switch. He found it, and the bookshop flooded with a soft yellow light, highlighting the predicament he found himself in. Aziraphale seemed in no hurry to move.

Crowley’s pupils contracted to slits in the light, and met an all too familiar--and incredibly close--set of pale blue eyes. Aziraphale’s pupils were blown wide, leaving only the faintest outline of color, and most noticeably, rimmed with red. Crowley would know that look anywhere, but...no.

There was no way. But the way he spoke to Crowley in the sushi restaurant, his overstimulated mannerisms in the car--it was the only thing that made sense.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began, squinting and pulling back to observe at a better angle. “Are you _high_?”

The angel hummed pleasantly, with that silly little smile that suggested he was thinking about something sweet and overly indulgent like crepes. Realizing that Crowley was expecting an answer, he responded, “Oh, hello.”

“Wha--no, I mean-- _what_ ? No! Are you _high_.”

Not that he would have any idea how the angel would come to be in such a state. Crowley wasn’t sure that Aziraphale even knew what marijuana _was_. Unless...

“Aziraphale. Angel, look at me. Did you have anything to eat, drink, or smoke before we went to dinner?”

The angel paused, although his proximity to Crowley remained unchanged. “Well there were those foul tasting biscuits.”

Well, that explained both everything and nothing.

“Biscuits.” Crowley refused to remove his sunglasses.

“Yes, I found them in your cabinet. Got a bit peckish before dinner. You were taking ever so long with whatever you were doing in the...hm.” He trailed off, entirely forgetting what he was about to say.

Aziraphale’s hands had drifted from Crowley’s shoulders to begin tracing circles on his mid back that had the demon just about ready to vibrate out of his corporation. There was a soft but strong quality to the circles those hands were making, and after the roughly two bottles of sake that Crowley was quite sure he drank entirely on his own, this felt, for lack of a better word, nice. Almost so nice that Crowley nearly forgot the predicament he had found himself in. Until Aziraphale’s hands drifted south to find the pert little globes of Crowley’s arse and gave them a firm squeeze.

“Angel!” Crowley’s hips thrust forward, right into Aziraphale’s pelvis. And the noise of unadulterated lust the angel made at _that_ , well. That would certainly be burned into his mind for all eternity. For half a moment he expected he would revert into snake form purely out of shock and embarrassment.

In a single fluid, self-preserving motion, Crowley twisted out of Aziraphale’s grasp and strategically moved into the bookshop’s rotunda, away from any nearby walls. Six thousand years of carefully guarded feelings and meticulously curated actions and the angel just decides to grab a handful, right here in the bookshop, after accidentally taking a trip on a bloody weed biscuit!

“Aziraphale. Those were not…” he clenched and unclenched his fists in the air between them, searching for the right word, “ _normal_ biscuits.”

“Oh, I figured that much out for myself, thank you.” He looked down, missing their proximity, but seemed slow to close the distance, having been distracted by the change of topic to that of food. “They were most definitely expired, very dry, and quite frankly, had a terrible aftertaste.” He grimaced and stuck out his tongue, as if directly recalling their pungent flavor. “Which reminds me, my dear boy, I really must speak with you about leaving expired food in your pantry.” He began to approach now, having a difficult time lifting his feet from the floor as he did so. “It’s just not good form, you see, and--”

“Aziraphale. They weren’t expired.”

The angel paused, eyes languidly searching Crowley’s pinched expression for further explanation.

“How do I put this?” The demon pushed the fiery hair from his forehead before dragging his hand down his face. “You consumed...marijuana infused biscuits.”

Crowley watched the gears churn in Aziraphale’s mind as he grappled with the concept. The angel’s soft, pink mouth fell open, closed, fell open again before deciding on, “Oh...oh my. I’ve of course heard of edibles, but I hadn’t realized that _you_ \--”

“You’ve _of course_ heard of--? Never mind. How many did you eat?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a handful.”

“A handful!” Crowley spun around again, looking heavenwards, hands anchored to his bony hips.

“A _small_ handful,” he corrected, as if it would make any blessed difference. “I told you, I was hungry, and you were taking so long to get ready!” He wrung his hands in front of him, worry creasing his brow.

Crowley screwed up his face as if he’d smelled something foul, before it melted into something like a sneer. “Oh, ‘course. Excuse me, don’t mind me, just going to wander around a _demon’s kitchen_ until I find some old biscuits to eat?”

“I told you, I was hungry! How was I to know you’d have--have--” he visibly struggled for a moment, “marijuana biscuits stashed in your cabinets!”

Crowley threw his hands up in the air. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale!”

“That doesn’t mean a thing and you--” he let his distracted gaze drift over Crowley’s petulant stance. “And you know it.”

“Yeah well, old habits die hard, and all that.” Crowley poured himself onto the couch, propping a leg up on the coffee table, and patting the space next to him. “Come on, angel. It’ll wear off in a few hours. Nothing to do besides ride out the worst of it.”

“I’m not sure what you’re on about, Crowley. I’m quite en...joying myself.” He began to make his way towards where Crowley was sitting on the old leather sofa, but paused, body rigid and eyes wide as saucers.

“All right, angel?”

“Ah, I...I’m afraid I can’t move.”

“What do you mean, you can’t move? Were moving just then.” The demon jabbed a finger at Aziraphale’s patent leather shoes that rested on the rug in the center of the hardwood floor.

“Yes, but I feel like, like my feet are stuck.” His face screwed up in concern. “To the floor.”

Crowley tore off his glasses, dangling the frames from his fingertips. “Just try moving, angel.”

And so the angel did move, but heaven did he take his own sweet time. He lifted a knee first, then dropped it again, as if he had entirely forgotten how to walk. Then, he lifted the same knee again, and struggled to move it forward to take a single step. “It’s like I’m almost...swimming. Crowley, I think I’m swimming through the carpet.”

“Oh someone help me,” Crowley muttered, before waving his hand and causing a decanter of scotch and a single tumbler to appear before him. He poured himself a generous amount and took a long swig. If he weren’t genuinely concerned for the angel’s current mental state, he would have been tempted to document all of this on his phone.

“Can you make it over here, or am I gonna have to come help you?” Not that he’d know what, exactly, that would entail. Probably touching. Touching Aziraphale. Which had been strictly off-limits until...well, until Aziraphale accidentally got high off his arse and had completely blown away any semblance of boundaries they had constructed for themselves--and whatever you could call their relationship--over the centuries.

“Oh I think I’m quite alright now, dear boy. I believe I’ve just about worked out how to navigate!” The angel was now flailing his arms in what he would at any other time consider a completely humiliating fashion. Perhaps you could call it a swimming motion, but Crowley would bet money it wouldn’t have saved someone who was drowning.

Aziraphale made his way over to the sofa, like this, over the next minute or so, while Crowley only barely resisted the temptation to take out his phone. And when he did finally make it, Aziraphale plopped down onto the couch with such force that he nearly knocked the tumbler of scotch right out of Crowley’s hand.

“Watch it!” Crowley hissed, placing his glass gingerly on the table. “This is expensive stuff, angel.”

“Oh, loosen up Crowley. I thought we were having fun.”

“Loosen-- _me_ , loosen up?!” He pulled back, a serpent ready to strike. His protests were ignored.

“I think we could do with a bit of music, don’t you?” Aziraphale raised an arm and sloppily snapped his fingers in the direction of the victrola sitting in the corner.

The abrupt sound of needle hitting vinyl, followed by the soft sound of a piano. It progressed slowly at first, and then with more urgency: triplets followed by triplets followed by triplets, followed by…

Aziraphale was startled from his trance when Crowley’s glasses--which had been dangling from his fingertips this entire time--dropped squarely on the angel’s white blond head.

“Philip fucking Glass?”

Aziraphale spun around to fully face him on the sofa, his lips turning down into an exaggerated pout. “What do you have against Philip?”

“He’s one of ours!” Crowley croaked in disbelief. “Influenced by yours truly! Meant to drive even the most discerning individuals off the edge of sanity and right into Hell itself.” The song was building now, building into a climax that was sure to never come, before it suddenly dropped off a cliff directly into the same little triad of notes that repeated again, and again, and again.

“Look, even Satan himself could not have possibly foreseen that a guy flogging to death the same three notes on a piano would get him the title of ‘most influential composer of the late twentieth century’.”

* * *

Aziraphale answered by leaning into Crowley with all of his body weight, and taking a long, audible whiff of him where his neck met his shoulder.

And oh, didn’t he smell just _lovely_ . Aziraphale would have said so, but his vocal chords had decided to take a rest for a moment, as he was currently too wrapped up in cataloguing the earthly and non-earthly smells that made up his favorite demon. He smelled like rain that had put out a fire, new growth beginning to surface against all odds through a charred forest floor. Like a match that had been struck, a candle freshly lit. Like black coffee that had been left to roast slightly too long. He nuzzled his face into Crowley’s neck, exposing the smooth skin and sinew that lay underneath layers of black cotton. And oh how he wanted to _taste_...

Meanwhile, Crowley had gone stiff as a statue underneath him.

“Angel,” he ground out, staying perfectly still. “What’re you doing.”

Aziraphale responded by darting his tongue out to taste the salt-sweat of Crowley’s skin, his entire corporation buzzing with a sudden need to be closer. Why hadn’t he thought to do this before? Well, no, that was a lie. He had thought of doing exactly this before--before the apocalypse, and especially after, to be precise. He just hadn’t been able to summon the courage. No amount of wine, or hard liquor even, had given him the fortitude to admit the way he felt about Crowley, out of fear he would be rejected outright. After all, wouldn’t the demon have said something at some point over the last six thousand years if he felt even remotely the same way?

But somehow, now, Aziraphale felt at peace with all of this. He was fearless, wrapped in this warm, all encompassing calm, like being under a heavy blanket on a cold rainy day. The world was in soft focus, and all he could see was Crowley. Who was, currently, making extremely interesting noises under Aziraphale’s ministrations.

Aziraphale’s hands leisurely made their way to Crowley’s hips, and oh what lovely hips they were. So much work they did, these hips of his, and how sensuous they were. Surely, he must have realized, or must have been doing it on purpose to tempt Aziraphale. Whatever the case, the angel made his feelings known by digging his fingers into that bony flesh.

The music droned on; a soprano saxophone climbed a minor scale and seemed to have no intention of stopping. Crowley hadn’t spoken in some time, but that wasn’t to say he wasn’t making any noise. His breathing had grown quite rough and shallow and, much to Aziraphale’s interest, he had started making breathy little sounds that he didn’t seem entirely in control of. And oh, how he wondered what other sounds Crowley could make.

He tightened his grip on the demon’s hips, and in one or two disconnected motions, hoisted himself into Crowley’s lap, bracketing narrow hips with generous thighs.

Crowley threw his head back against the sofa and uttered what could only be described as a moan. With some difficulty he managed to cut it off, but not before bucking his hips into the angel astride him. How very interesting indeed.

“A-Azirahhh,” he stuttered, before grasping the angel by the shoulders. “Aziraphale. What. Are you doing.”

“Well, you invited me to come over, so I did.” Aziraphale bit his bottom lip, surprising even himself with his forwardness. He wiggled in Crowley’s lap, and was met with a choked sob.

“To sit.” Crowley’s yellow eyes darted from Aziraphale’s current position on his lap, to the cushion next to him, and back again. “There. Not--” he cut himself off with a string of noncommittal sounds, unable to finish his thought. And oh, now there was surely no doubt how Crowley felt about all of this, because his raging erection was pressed right against Aziraphale’s front through sinfully tight trousers.

The sight was almost more than Aziraphale could bear. He felt molten heat pool deep in his stomach, his own arousal now painfully apparent. Why had this taken them so long? The angel roughly ran his manicured fingers through Crowley’s fire red locks, curling them at the base of his skull. And if the look of pure ecstasy on the demon’s face was any indication, he liked that, too. Very much.

Somewhere in the bookshop, from a place that presently seemed very far away, the swelling crescendos of “Etude No. 2” drifted through the stacks, picking up speed in conjunction with Aziraphale’s rising need to be closer to his demon.

Too far gone to worry about being embarrassed about his current state of arousal, Crowley leaned into the angel’s touch--nuzzled even (although he’d never admit to it). Couldn’t he allow himself this one small pleasure? Perhaps Aziraphale didn’t feel the same way he did. And maybe he hadn’t ever exhibited any visible signs of interest in sexual relations--at least with Crowley. He shoved that thought away. But apparently, get a bit of weed in him, and he was all about the sins of the flesh. Who knew that’s all it would take for Aziraphale to be the one tempting _him_?

How long had he wanted this? _How long have we been friends?_ Centuries. Millenia. So long he didn’t even remember when he started wanting it; he only ever remembered feeling afraid that he wouldn’t be able to stop. Even though he hadn’t partaken in Aziraphale’s little biscuit mishap, Crowley was higher than anything on the angel’s proximity alone. Touching, touching, we’re _touching_. And that was perhaps the only thought Crowley’s mind was able to form at the moment.

Until the angel ground into him like a pestle to mortar, and then his only thought was, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , in most ways imaginable.

A rogue piece of Crowley’s brain--which probably shouldn’t have been there, considering he was a demon and all--cried out in a rare stroke of emotional preservation. If things continued the way they were going, Crowley wouldn’t be able to stop himself. And then what? Aziraphale would come to, realize what he had done in his altered state, say something like, “So sorry dear boy, I don’t know what came over me,” and never mention it again. That, or he would be too embarrassed by his actions to speak to Crowley for weeks. Or months. Or _centuries_. Shit, shit, shit. Why him?

“Stop.” It was, without a doubt, the single most difficult thing Crowley had ever said. “Angel, stop.”

As if broken from a trance, Aziraphale froze, similarly to how he had done on the carpet just minutes ago. Although this time, his voice trembled a bit when he spoke. “What’s wrong, dear boy?”

Crowley choked on a word, or maybe his own saliva--perhaps Aziraphale’s saliva? No, no don’t think about that--but only managed to make a pathetic grunt. And even while the rest of him resisted, that small part of his conscience brought his hands up to Aziraphale’s shoulders and pressed, just enough to get the angel to give him space to breathe.

“Look, angel, I--” The slightest movement of Aziraphale on top of him made him see sparks behind his eyes. He clenched his teeth and tried again. “I’m not saying I, ah…” Why was this so difficult? Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, steeling his resolve. “I’m not saying I don’t want this. But you are _really_ far gone, and I just don’t think--” God, Satan, someone, he wanted this _so much_. Oh, how he wanted. To kiss Aziraphale senseless, to make his whole body quiver with delight, to make him come with Crowley’s name on his lips.

But not like this.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said weakly.

He quickly modified his statement at the broken look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Right _now_ , angel. I don’t think it’s a good idea _right now_.”

“But you are?”

“Are what?”

“Enjoying it, Crowley.”

“As if that much wasn’t obvious,” Crowley retorted, but immediately regretted it when he saw the angel raise his eyebrows and look down slowly at the offending party. Crowley wanted to scream. Why did he even make an effort at all? Ah yes, because he one day hoped that he and Aziraphale would find themselves in a situation very similar to the one they found themselves in at this very moment. His angel, who he had pined after for thousands of years, pliant and willing in his arms, just like that. Of course it would never be that easy, not for Crowley.

“Because, angel,” he ground out, squeezing his eyes shut. “Look, can’t you...sober up, or something?”

The question seemed to distract Aziraphale for a moment as he genuinely mulled it over. “I’m afraid not. Not sure how.” He then brushed a lock of damp, copper hair from Crowley’s brow with a sad smile. “Another time, then, dearest?”

How Crowley so desperately wished he hadn’t dropped his sunglasses earlier. He didn’t make eye contact as he said, “Yeah. ‘Course.”

He knew, in his heart of hearts, that there wouldn’t be another time.

Aziraphale positively beamed, before rolling off of Crowley’s lap with likely less grace than the demon fell from.

Crowley put his face in his hands, unsuccessfully willing away his partial erection and vaulting himself from the sofa. “Look, why don’t I go...fix you some cocoa.”

He nearly lost his resolve when he looked at Aziraphale for an answer. His lips were parted, a flush blooming high on his cheekbones. Crowley blinked hard, grinding his teeth as he tore himself away. Too much exposure to _that_ , and he’d be high off his arse too, edible or no.

“Oh! Cocoa. That sounds lovely. Won’t you have some, too?”

Crowley mumbled affirmatively, before grabbing the decanter of scotch and using it to hide what was left of his waning arousal and shuffling into the kitchenette.

He went through the motions of filling a small saucepan with milk and grabbing the little tin of cocoa from Aziraphale’s cabinet which never ran out only because he never expected it to. From the other room he heard a gasp, then a slapping noise that Crowley was sure had to be the sound of Aziraphale’s hand hitting the leather sofa, but Satan help him if it didn’t sound like something else. A voice, slightly raised, carried across the bookshop the kitchenette.

“Did you realize, Crowley, that chocolate, vanilla, and coffee are all derived from beans?”

If he had any doubts that Aziraphale was still riding the high of those biscuits, they all went flying out the window. He rolled his eyes, a shaky hand measuring out too much cocoa mix into Aziraphale’s favorite winged mug. He decided to forego the customary shot or so of whiskey, but that didn’t stop him from uncorking the decanter and taking a hearty swig of it for himself.

“Ah.” Aziraphale reached out with both hands and grasped the offered mug as gently as if it were a baby bird. “Thank you.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, and after a moment of hesitation, sat on the edge of the sofa as far away as he could from the angel until he was nearly sitting on the armrest.

Minutes of shared silence seemed to drag into hours, only broken by Aziraphale’s occasional hums of delight over his hot chocolate. He still remained close to Crowley, but wasn’t quite touching, and Crowley remained coiled up against the arm of the sofa, lips drawn tightly together, trying and failing miserably to not think about what had just occurred.

“Well, did you?” Aziraphale asked, suddenly breaking the silence.

“Did I what?”

“Did you realize?”

“Did I realize what?”

“The beans, Crowley!” Aziraphale set his mug down with a frustrated clink.

Crowley threw his arms up into the air. “No, sorry, I wasn’t thinking about the sodding beans! You just--you just--” Crowley flung himself from the couch and started pacing around the shop, hands fisting in his copper red hair. “Ohhh someone help me, you just sat in my bloody _lap_ , Aziraphale!” He nearly choked as the words came out of his mouth. Never mind everything else the angel had just done; Crowley didn’t know if his heart (or his cock) could handle a retelling. “And off you go prattling on about _beans_ as if this is all completely normal.”

Aziraphale picked up his cocoa again, seeming to consider Crowley’s words before responding simply, “Would you like it to be?”

“What?”

“Normal.”

“I am not answering that, not now.”

Aziraphale hummed happily, unfazed by Crowley’s discomfort. “Well, then why don’t we get some sleep, and you can answer me in the morning. I’m afraid the, hm, marijuana has made me quite drowsy.” He enunciated the word “marijuana” like a mother in her mid-fifties who was explaining to her teenager why not to hang around those troubled kids down the street.

Defeated, Crowley sat down and leaned against the back of the sofa, training his eyes on the bookshop ceiling and willing his face to remain expressionless. “Tends to do that, yeah.”

The angel let out an exaggerated sigh, and relaxed further into the cushions. He wiggled closer to the demon, and tucked his head into the crook of his shoulder. And my, wasn’t that nice. He inhaled, probably too loudly, and nuzzled into Crowley’s thin black shirt.

The demon went completely still, torn between enjoying this rare moment, and being flooded with guilt knowing that Aziraphale was in an impaired state and would never do this otherwise. He reluctantly, and oh so slowly, brought an arm around the angel’s shoulder, hand resting gently on the worn velvet of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

They sat like that for some time, Aziraphale letting out an occasional contented sigh, Crowley reveling in the feeling of the warm angel leaning against him. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and Crowley assumed that he had fallen asleep. But just as he was about to drift off himself (it was past midnight, and old habits die hard), he felt Aziraphale shift against him and mutter something softly.

“I hope you know, my dear, that I care about you very much.”

Crowley bit his lip, and let his eyes drift shut. “Care about you, too, angel.” _More than anything_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t. He never did, never could bring himself to admit his feelings that would inevitably be unreturned, had Aziraphale been in his right mind. Not that it would have mattered anyway, because the angel was already slumping into Crowley’s side, lips slightly parted, and fast asleep.

* * *

Crowley blinked his eyes open, slowly allowing them to adjust to the dim light that flooded the room. The bookshop was silent, the record having stopped spinning long ago. A warm, firm weight lay against his chest.

“You look so peaceful when you sleep.”

Crowley jolted fully awake, and made a weak attempt to squirm out from under the soothing weight of the angel atop of him. He met Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes, overflowing with a soft affection that made him want to melt into the sofa, slither back to his Mayfair flat, and forget that any of this had ever happened.

Those biscuits must have been more potent than he thought. “Are you _still_ high?” he asked, his voice mercifully unwavering. He felt around for his glasses as he (oh so reluctantly) squirmed out from under the warm weight of the angel.

Aziraphale smiled softly, and took Crowley’s hands in his, stilling them with a pat of his own. “Why, of course not, dear boy. I confess, I haven’t been under the influence of your biscuits since around the time you made the cocoa. Took me a bit, but I figured out how to sober up, as it were. Almost wishing I hadn’t, to be honest. It felt very nice.”

Crowley gaped, golden eyes gone wide, until he remembered that he still wasn’t wearing his glasses, and quickly schooled his face back into a neutral expression. “Since the _cocoa_ ?” That meant that everything Aziraphale had said since...everything he had confessed about _caring_ and...no, that couldn’t be true. His gaze darted down at their hands, his clasped in the warm, soft embrace of Aziraphale’s, and back up to the angel’s frustratingly serene face. Crowley intended to ask what he had meant by all of it, but his lips betrayed him and instead what came out was, “What--what about that comment you made about beans?”

“What about my rather prolific observation about beans? It was a legitimate question! _Have_ you ever thought about how many different types of beans there are, both sweet and savory?”

Crowley groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. Maybe the scotch wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. But neither was falling asleep on Aziraphale’s sofa with a lapful of angel. Dear someone, he was well and truly fucked.

With a tinge of sadness, he felt the angel release his hands, and opened his eyes to Aziraphale sitting upright next to him, back ramrod straight, with a forlorn expression on his normally jovial face.

Crowley sat up as well, taking another cursory look around for his glasses to no avail. Where did he put those blasted things? “What about…” he held his head in his hands, unable to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “What about the other things you said?”

“I meant all of it, of course.” The words spilled out of him, colored with worry.

Crowley turned to stare, eyes wide, in a moment not dissimilar from one shared on a wall overlooking a certain garden many, many years ago. “You _what_.”

Aziraphale shifted, unaware of what to do with his hands. “Well, yes. Goodness Crowley, don’t look so surprised. Those biscuits may have assisted me in working up the courage to be so bold, but I should think my feelings before now had been obvious.”

Crowley choked. “Obvious. Your feelings. You--and how’ve they been obvious, exactly?”

Aziraphale’s pale eyebrows knitted together as he looked at Crowley with an expression that may have resembled pity, if it hadn’t been so heart wrenchingly sincere. “Oh, I’m afraid I’ve made quite a mess of things.” He broke eye contact, twisting his hands together in his lap. “Of course, if you don’t ah, return said feelings, that’s. Well, I would under--”

Crowley didn’t let him finish. Instead, in a moment of rare and exquisite courage, he took Aziraphale’s cheek in his hand, turned his face ever so gently, and kissed him.

He half expected him to pull away, to make excuses for why they shouldn’t do this, can’t do this, why this was a mistake. Instead, Aziraphale surged up toward Crowley and opened those soft, pink lips that Crowley had only dreamed of kissing, allowing him entrance and positively moaning when the demon acquiesced. The noises he was making were even more filthy than those he made while eating sushi high off his arse last night, and Crowley found himself wondering why it had taken him so very long to do this.

Overwhelmed by the sheer amount of emotion threatening to overflow from his corporation, Crowley pulled back, and with an expression of unadulterated happiness said, “You idiot.”

Aziraphale beamed right back at him, a flush high on the apples of his cheeks. “I love you, too, my dear.”

* * *

They stayed on the couch for hours, enjoying each others’ company, until the sun was high in the sky and the long morning shadows that swathed the bookshop had all but disappeared.

Much to his own surprise, Crowley was the one who broke the silence.

“Maybe I’ll join you next time. You know, with the…” he trailed off in a series of murmurs, motioning to his lips as if taking an imaginary drag.

Aziraphale squeezed the bony shoulder his arm was currently draped over, pulling the demon in closer. “That’s assuming there will be a next time, dear. I’m afraid I may have polished off the biscuits in your cabinet.”

“Angel, what do you think I’ve been growing all these years?”

A gasp and a turn of the head followed by, “You haven’t.”

Crowley cocked his head, hair falling in disarray, and winked. “Well, it’s not called the Devil’s Lettuce for nothing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for a long time and, well, I guess it took quarantine for me to finally finish it up and post it. Thanks so much to [vgersix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/pseuds/vgersix) for being my beta for my first Good Omens fic! Please go check out their work if you haven't; they are an amazing writer and a tremendous inspiration to me.
> 
> Many of the things Aziraphale experiences in this story come from first hand experience...oops. Be careful with edibles, kids. Hope you had as much fun reading as I did writing!
> 
> xo Sid
> 
> Bonus art by [Ren Blakely](https://twitter.com/renblakely)!


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